


Eilean Mo Chridhe

by thewhitelady (Sileas)



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - World War I, Drama & Romance, Early Modern Era, F/M, Inspired by a Movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sileas/pseuds/thewhitelady
Summary: Love in a time of war. Two loners find each other in the most unlikely places in 1916 Belgium while war rages around them. (Written for @akb723 for Tumblr's Outlander Secret Santa 2017)





	1. Chapter 1

“Bollocks!”

It wasn’t her use of foul language that caught his attention but the familiarity of an English accent amongst the Belgian countryside. It had been a long while he’d been around a fellow Brit, having been attached to the French army since the fall of 1916 as a liason - since the Somme.

It had been even longer since he’d last seen a woman. Especially a young, healthy, shapely woman like the one that was currently assessing the situation of the wheel on her wagon, sunk deep into the mud. He couldn’t help himself from pausing a moment to appreciate the way she was bent over the wooden wheel; her lovely, round arse covered in a pale blue floral patterned dress.

The dress had seen better days. Like most things during this war, it was worn and tired, faded and rough along the edges. Beautiful, but damaged.

“Do ye need assistance, Missus?”

She turned around with an explosion of curly brown hair and a sharp intake of air in surprise. Her shoes crunched against the gravel as she backed up against the side of the wagon.

“A Scot!”

It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

“Aye,” he smiled warmly as to not scare the lass. His own appearance was a sight rougher than hers. Even bringing to mind the occasion of his last real bath was a feat too challenging to attempt. He had covered the Mackenzie tartan of his kilt with a khaki apron and had swapped out his regiment’s distinctive stockings with khaki hose tops that showed over woolen olive putties wrapped tightly around his calves, so as to not draw attention as he made his way along the road; but war was a dirty business and his uniform showed it.

“My wagon. It’s stuck.”

There was a single horse still hitched to the front of the wagon and it peered back curiously as he approached.

“Lieutenant James Fraser, at your service Missus.”

“Miss,” she corrected, her cheeks blushing slightly. “Beauchamp. Claire Beauchamp.”

“Miss Beauchamp,” he nodded his head then quickly got to work in pulling off a multitude of gear, laying his helmet, rifle, bayonet, small pack and battle webbing on the side of the road. He unbuttoned his tunic and layed it alongside the rest, then rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow before grabbing a trench shovel from the pack to help with the work.

“Might I ask, Miss Beauchamp, how ye came to be here?”

“Please, call me Claire,” she offered, moving back toward the safety of the dry gravel road as she watched him work in the muck to free the wheel. “I was helping a woman just down the road who is expecting a child any day now. She was having early pains, you see, and–”

“I was meaning,” he interrupted with a chuckle and a wry smile, “how do ye come to be here in Flanders? I havena run into many English lassies around these parts.”

“Oh!” she was blushing again and he couldn’t help but think it made her look breathtakingly beautiful, the way the pink flushed from her neck up to the sweet apples of her cheeks. “My apologies, Lieutenant.”

Claire smiled shyly while attempting to push back her unruly curls that had once again managed to push their way into her eyes.

“I moved here to live with my uncle a number of years ago. He’s was a professor at the university in Ghent. Shortly before the Germans invaded and cut us off from everything, he fell ill and I wasn’t able to care for him properly. He passed away, but I still live on our small farm about an hour’s ride from here.”

Jamie didn’t respond in more than grunts of acknowledgement as he worked on freeing the wagon, creating enough traction under the wheel that the single chestnut mare still hitched to the front might be able to pull it forward. He could feel Claire’s eyes on him as he pushed and pulled and he couldn’t resist flexing the muscles of his arms and stretching his legs more than necessary in the hopes she might be attracted to the sight. After all, he wasn’t sure when he might see another available woman after this one.

“How is it that you come to be here, Lieutenant?” Claire wondered, looking up and down the empty dirt sideroad. “I haven’t seen any soldiers along this road for quite some time now.”

“Well,” Jamie paused to take a deep breath before moving to the front of the wagon. He grabbed the reins and began to encourage the horse forward. “I’ve been attached to the French army as a translator in Calais. I’m good wi’ languages, ye see. Now I’ve been called back to my unit. I was expecting transport to meet me but they didnae turn up, so I decided to make my own way.”

“Couldn’t that be considered deserting, you not being where you’re meant to be?”

“Oh aye, I suppose.”

A sudden snap of the reins and the horse jerked forward, pulling the wagon out of the mud and back onto the safety of the road.

“But I canna imagine there are too many deserters headed toward the fighting and no’ away. If I stay along the road then perhaps when the transport finally comes through I’ll see them first.”

“My home is also along the road here.”

“Och, aye?” Jamie asked politely. Now that the wagon was sorted out he began to repack his things and put the rest of his uniform back on, grateful for the break from wearing his wool tunic in the heat of the day.

“I’ve a barn, also.”

“That sounds lovely, Miss Claire. I’m sure tis a fine place.”

Claire was wringing her hands anxiously, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she made last minute decisions. This man seemed to be of good character and high moral standing but it was hard to trust people in times like these. She had been alone with just her uncle’s long-standing housekeeper, Mrs. Fox, to keep her company these past few years and on occasion men would try to take advantage of them.

Being English drew a lot of attention to them in the village. It had been a long time since a man had been on their small homestead and it would surely be noticed and talked about in no time. Not to mention that Mrs. Fox would surely think it inappropriate for Claire to even be alone on the road with this man unaccompanied.

“What I mean to say Lieutenant, is that I wish to thank you for helping me with the wagon,” she explained. “Please come back to my home for something to eat and perhaps a warm bath and you can spend the night in our barn. Mrs. Fox has made fresh bread just this morning and the straw in the barn is fresh. Should your transport come through, there’s no way we’ll miss them.”

He should have said no and kept on walking toward his unit but the reality was it had been days since his last real meal, weeks since his last real bath and even a straw bed surrounded by the comfort of warm, sleeping beasts was too appealing to pass up.

“Aye, thank you Miss Claire. I would be verra grateful.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie had eaten so much he was fit to pop. He felt so downright gluttonous he’d been silently repenting for his selfishness, knowing he was taking food straight from these two women’s mouths. Claire seemed happy to keep feeding him though. She had barely touched her own food as she watched him down half a pot of chicken stew, a full loaf of bread (with butter! Oh, how long it had been since he’d last had such a delicacy) and a generous helping of custard to his pudding.

The housemaid, Mrs. Fox, seemed suspicious of his intent but he hardly blamed her. If he was the man of this house he would have been infuriated if a strange soldier off the street had been let in, trusted simply because of a British uniform. Their home, livestock and lives were at stake if he turned out to be a villain. Claire did trust him though and he couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, no matter what his usual proclivities were.

“Since you’re here, you might make yourself useful,” Mrs. Fox said as Jamie breathed deeply through the discomfort of an overfilled stomach.

“Of course, madam. I’m indebted to ye.”

Jamie suspected the old housekeeper could not provide Claire a great deal of support. The woman was easily in her 70’s, hunched over and arthritic, her hands stiffened into claws though she managed to grip a ladle well enough. It was a lot for the younger woman to handle, he was sure, so whatever he could do before he began his trek again in the morning, he would.

“Good lad. You might bring the tub from the back room up here next to the hearth so we might fill it. Then while Miss Claire and I prepare to turn in, you might go check on the animals - you said you were a farm boy back in Scotland, yes? We’ll let you know when it’s your turn.”

“Aye madam, right away.”

Bringing the bath out to the hearth reminded him of home. His ancestors had lived on an estate called Broch Tuarach, in the northern part of the Scottish Highlands for centuries. Lallybroch was an old house and his family was comfortable but not well off enough to have an indoor privy built on to the ancient stone estate house. Thankfully, it was always warm courtesy of the many fireplaces and in front of the kitchen hearth was where everyone would bathe each Saturday so they’d be clean for church in the morning.

Jamie could remember many times as a lad his mother pulling the tin bath out and forcing him and his two brothers, Willie and Rabbie, in to wash a week’s worth of dirt off of them. He would complain about having to wash in water his sister Jenny had already fouled, while she forcefully scrubbed behind their ears and between their toes. No matter how angry she seemed by the state of them, he could always hear the smile behind her chastising words.

What he ultimately found in the back room was not a tin bath at all, but a full sized wooden bathtub. He’d never seen such a thing in person, only in advertisements and was thrilled by the novelty of it all. He thought Claire’s uncle must have been a well-to-do man prior to his passing for his women certainly did not seem to be going without.

Jamie wished he could show his brothers and father the exceptional workmanship. Like a large wine cask, the tub was made out of wooden planks pulled together by metal staves. Some sort of waterproofing, likely pitch, was used to keep it from leaking and inside it was lined with linen to keep the occupant from coming into contact with the wood directly.

“Well Jamie lad,” he said to himself as he maneuvered the tub toward the hearth. “If yer to die in this war, at least ye’ll be fresh.”


	3. Chapter 3

While the two women bathed in the house, Jamie made himself useful outside. It was impressive that Claire had managed to keep their animals alive given the poor conditions created by the war raging around them. A large, flourishing garden seemed to be the likely source of her success, supplying enough fresh food for both the animals and the two of them. There was at least a dozen chickens wandering about the property in search of the tastiest grubs, two healthy-sized pigs, a cow and two horses napping contently in the barn that would be his temporary living quarters.

He’d been caught up in this war for years now, his only views being mud, blood and death all around him. This place was a slice of heaven in comparison to the darkness that had engulfed him since he first stepped off the boat in France in July 1914. Three years since he’d last seen his brothers William and Robert and brother-in-law Ian when they were separated into different battalions (too much risk keeping family members together). Three long, lonely years since he’d last touched Scottish soil, smelled the heather and felt the mist of Highland fog on his cheeks.

Closing his eyes, he stretched into the cool evening air, lulled by the sound of animals enjoying their evening meal. As his mind drifted the content munching turned to the bang of gunfire and the whistle of artillery.

**_July 1916 - Beaumont Hamel, France_ **

_A shell exploded with a brain-rattling bang, sending them all diving behind debris to avoid the spray of shrapnel._

_“All right, lads?” Sgt. Dougal Mackenzie’s deep voice boomed over the dying sound of the explosion, the dust slowly drifting back down to the ground._

_“Oh Jesus! Oh Christ!”_

_Jamie kept his hands from shaking by tightening his grip on his rifle. The younger man next to him continued crying out to his maker and he carefully opened one eye. The fear increased once he shared the other man’s view of a headless soldier propped up against a large piece of stone. The only thing not burnt and bloody was a set of white legs covered only by a dark green and black kilt._

_“Keep yer heads down, lads!”_

_The sargeant’s voice was just next to his ear. He turned away to face the other man, trying to remind himself that while their captain led a group to ambush a gun nest he was the senior ranking officer in their platoon._

_“Lieutenant, stay wi’ me. Yer going tae be fine.”_

_They were meant to create a distraction in order for the other group to take out a sniper that had caused significant allied casualties. It was not Jamie’s first trip to the front lines but he’d been struggling recently, with what he wasn’t sure, but he’d suddenly find himself helpless and shaking, frozen with fear and unable to breathe._

_“Where’s he from?” Jamie managed to ask, finding his voice once more._

_“13th. Black Watch.”_

_“I thought they were up on Hill 50 somewhere. What the hell is he doing here?”_

_Large and brooding, Sgt. Dougal Mackenzie was a middle-aged balding man with a crude sense of humour. He was the polar opposite of Jamie’s own father. He couldn’t stand the way the man treated women and acted as though he could singlehandedly defeat the Huns, but he couldn’t deny that the older man was good at killing._

_“Must have lost his heid.”_

_Jamie was about to reprimand the man for his tasteless joke when a barrage of machine gun fire came whizzing past their own heads, mirroring the likely fate of their decapitated bedfellow. His thoughts were coming back under his control and he immediately began to plan their next moves. They couldn’t stay there and wait for the German machine gunners to take them out, they had to advance. They had to trust that the other members of their group had taken care of their sniper problem._

_“Listen up,” he told the group. “Sgt. Mackenzie, Sinclair - work your way up the right side. Chisholm and Beaton - you’re with me. You cover, we lead. Got it?”_

_Without further question they moved, dodging gunfire. The Germans called them the “Ladies from Hell” and it was not a nickname without merit. They charged headfirst into every conflict, plaids flying and used the element of surprise to stun their enemies - essentially playing chicken with the some of the most well trained soldiers in the world._

_They were now too close for the machine gun’s range and Jamie could see the soldiers on the other side of the sandbag fortress scrambling for sidearms but they came over the top before they’d had a chance to organize themselves. He now stood in the power position at the top of the embankment, a wide-eyed young man now at the point of his bayonet._

_“Kamerad?”_

_The boy, because he was no more than a bairn (no older than Jamie’s own 16-year-old brother who had lied about his age in order to enlist and go on this great adventure) had his hands held up in surrender, pleading for his life in a string of German and broken English._

_Jamie would never forget the feeling of his bayonet sliding through the lad’s forehead._

“Shh…it’s alright, Jamie. You’re safe.”

“Mam?”

A featherlight touch along the crown of his head brought him slowly back to reality only to realize where he was - in Belgium, still in the middle of this bloody war, but safe and warm. Claire ignored the fact that he had called out for his mother, continuing to guide him back to himself. She’d heard crying in the garden during her bath and came out to find him curled up on the ground, sweating and shaking, lost in the grips of a waking nightmare.

“I’ve got you,” she reassured him, feeling his breathing return to normal. “Come, let’s get you into the bath.”


	4. Chapter 4

Claire had led him back into the house and carefully undressed him in front of the kitchen hearth. As each piece of his clothing dropped to the floor he felt the crushing pressure against his chest slowly fall away. There was nothing sexual in the way she disrobed him but there was still an intimacy he’d never experienced before - the way her small fingers delicately pulled the buttons on his shirt free and slid it down over his shoulders along with his suspenders, then trousers, until finally he was free of the weight of his memories. She’d heated the water again after her own bath and after he sank down into the steaming bath, ran a soft sponge across the back of his shoulders and down his arms and wet his hair to wash it.

“Yer a kind woman,” he said, breaking the silence of the room. “Wi’ a nice touch.”

“My passion has always been caring for people,” Claire confessed. She had very little high quality soap left, with supplies so scarce, but she was willing to sacrifice what she had left to this man she’d only met earlier that day. The sweet scent of hazelnut was in the air as she worked the soap into his hair, surprised to see that under many oily layers of dust and dirt, his hair was more a mix of cinnamon and copper than the dark auburn it had appeared.

“The Belgian Army is accepting women volunteers for medical positions and I’ve considered signing up, but with Mrs. Fox’s health it would be impossible for me to leave here.”

“Yer brave,” Jamie told her, eyes closed while she rinsed the soap from his hair. “If not a bit foolish. Consider it a gift from God that you canna go and be witness to such horrors.”

“I want to help, I know I could be of use.”

“I have nae doubt of it - I wouldna want my life in the hands of anyone else. But knowing yer here, safe and sound, would bring me great joy.”

Claire was smiling bashfully behind his shoulder, her fingers anxiously ringing out the sponge. “You hardly know me.”

Jamie turned in the tub to face her, water skimming the edges and running in rivets down the sides to the floor. He hadn’t taken the time to look at her plainly since she’d led him blindly into the house. She was wearing a simple, white linen night dress with a thin housecoat over top, embroidered with a row of blue flowers along the edge. In his mind, he could make out the rouge of her nipples through the soft fabric and he had to make an effort to think of something else lest things get more complicated than they need be. It would have already been considered inappropriate by most people that he was not only naked in a bathtub next to an unmarried woman that had already undressed and washed him; but was now facing her, looking at her en déshabillé, uncaring for how much he was privy to seeing.

“I should like to write to ye, to get to know ye better.”

He was staring at her intently with sky blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. For her entire life, Claire had experienced people staring at her but it was usually out of the corner of their eyes, never front on. They spoke about her in secret because she was different from the rest with her penchant for herbology, botany and healing; because she was special in ways that made them uncomfortable. They wondered what must have been wrong with her to not have a husband at her age while Jamie had so far always looked her in the eye, always made her feel acknowledged and respected - an equal.

“Under one condition,” she said, leaving his side to collect a towel as well as some of Uncle Lamb’s old clothes for him to sleep in while she aired out his uniform on the line.

“Anything.”

“Tell me what happened earlier, why I found you the way I did. The truth.”

Part of the truth was that he didn’t know her from Adam. She could be a spy for all he was aware. He somehow knew she wasn’t, though. Somewhere, deep down, he could see the truth of her - that she was genuine and kind. He reached for the towel from her hand, waiting until she was safely turned around for the sake of her virtue rather than his modesty, before wrapping it tightly around his waist while he stood up from the tub. No words passed between them as he dried off and dressed in the linen pants and button up shirt she handed to him. It was the first time he’d been out of uniform in months and he took a moment to relish in the feeling of finely made, clean clothing against his skin.

Once he was properly dressed, he reached for the khaki apron that muted the colour of his Mackenzie tartan kilt from the eyes of the enemy. It had a front pocket that served as a sporran and from the depths he pulled out a medal - a silver cross with four imperial crowns and the royal cipher in the middle. It dangled from a ribbon of three coloured bars (white, purple and white again) as Jamie held it out for Claire to take.

“What is it?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“The military cross.”

“What did you get it for?”

Jamie paused as he looked over the small cross, tucked neatly into the palm of Claire’s delicate hand. It looked small and insignificant in his large, calloused mitt, but the way she held it made it seem much more impressive than he’d thought before. He wanted to say the words they’d used when it had been pinned on his chest; that he was awarded the medal for gallantry in the presence of the enemy, that he’d saved lives by taking out a German machine gun nest that had killed so many soldiers that had come before them, but she had asked for the truth.

“I got it for sticking a 17-inch piece of steel through a lad’s head.”


	5. Chapter 5

The doctors had diagnosed him with neurasthenia after the Battle of the Somme. It was the shell shock that overcame him in stressful situations that ultimately landed him in the French army’s translation group. He was a decorated soldier, too skilled both as a fighter and an academic for the army to let him go, but too damaged to be responsible for the welfare of others as a junior officer.

He’d been recently cleared for infantry duties, somewhat conveniently timed with an Allied push toward the German front lines. Jamie knew the doctors were in a position where a physically healthy man could not be wasted sitting in a bunker translating messages; it was work best left to those who were not trained infantrymen. Whether he was mentally sound was not something they were prepared to concern themselves with any longer - sound enough was all they needed.

Jamie let the truth pour out of him, telling Claire all the terrors that kept him awake at night and left a lingering hum of fear throughout the day, but also the small moments of joy he’d experienced since arriving on the continent - the friends he’d made, the beautiful sunrises he’d witnessed, and she listened enraptured by his stories.

“What was it like?” Claire asked boldly. “The Somme. We could hear the noise here in Belgium, but at the time didn’t realize it was so far away.”

Jamie said nothing at first, looking down to his fingers as though his cuticles were suddenly of interest.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s alright. There are things I canna tell you and things I willna tell you, but I’ll say what I can.”

“I really shouldn’t have asked, I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s fine, Claire. I think it may help…to speak of it.”

Britain was the only one of the large Allied powers that didn’t require their men to serve, but when the call rang out in 1914, men clamoured to answer it for King and country. Lord Kitchener required each man to agree to service for three years, or until the end of the war, whichever came first. At the time, no one believed the conflict would last and everyone in the small Scottish village where Jamie had spent his entire life, acted as though the boys would all be home by Christmas. They first went to France in early August that year as part of an expeditionary force of a few hundred thousand men. It took two full years until the British Army was at full capacity, with over one-and-a-half million fighting fit.

On the first of July at Zero Hour, the Allied armies advanced against the German forces on the north side of the Somme, including fifty battalions of Scottish men. It all started with a massive artillery attack that was meant to destroy the enemy trenches and bunkers, obliterate their defences and clear the way to victory.

It didn’t happen how they expected, the bombs were ineffective and the Germans had barely any losses as a result. As Jamie stood looking out over the sea of thick barbed wire snaking through No Man’s Land, knowing they would have to push through it, his mind immediately went to those he loved. His brothers and brother-in-law were somewhere in the fray, waiting to see what fate had in store for them and Jamie’s only fear was that his love of them would ultimately be what killed him; for he would not be able to leave them behind under any circumstances.

Some men never even made it past the first few steps. They were gunned down by a hail of machine gun fire as soon as they went over the top. Within the first ten minutes, half of them were gone. The Highland Light Infantry from Glasgow was nearly wiped out and those who weren’t killed instantly by machine gun or land mine, were left tangled in the wire to be picked off at the Hun’s convenience.

Jamie tried to cut as much wire as he could as he pushed ahead, but there were no defensive positions on the flat land between the trenches save for dugouts left by shells, and being exposed was almost certain death. He had to get his men to the other side lest he lose his own life.

It took five months of fighting to gain a measly seven miles of ground and nearly every friend Jamie had made since he’d stepped into the recruiting office was gone. It was undeniable that he was not the same man that came out of that fight as went in.

“There’s many details I dinna quite recall exactly as they happened, though I was banged about quite a bit,” he tapped his temple as if to better explain the situation. He looked to Claire for acknowledgment, noting that eyes were filled with unshed tears. He could tell she was fighting back the urge to let them go, not wanting him to stop sharing for the sake of her emotions so he pressed on. “The things I remember most clearly, are no what ye’d expect.”

“Like what?”

“Every day was sweltering wi’ heat and every night the rain would pour. The trenches became so filled wi’ water, it was up to yer belt in some sections. No even the rats could survive the conditions. I’ll ne’er forget helping a Frenchman that had sunk down into the mud, nearly to the shoulder. In some spots the trenches were close enough that during the quiet moments, especially at night, we could hear the Germans talking in their own trench.

“No one else could understand but me and I didna share what they were saying because it was just so…ordinary. They were having the same discussions we were - longing for home, missing our women, wishing there was better food, cursing the rat bites and the wet socks. I didna want the men under me to see them that way, lest it leave them thinking of those soldiers as just men, like them, instead of an enemy most foul. Most of all though, I remember the noise…”

The way he described the nonstop crescendo of sound sent shivers up Claire’s spine and raised goosebumps all over her skin. The shells falling all around them were continuous, like a giant machine gun ripping across the sky. Jamie could identify different explosives based on their sounds, he’d heard them so often. Some would come whistling toward you in a thoughtful sort of way before a loud bang sent it hurtling through the air with a long scream. One kind of shell built up like a steam engine, getting faster, louder and closer. Another made a noise like tearing fabric, louder and louder as it came closer. The largest kind would burst with a double crack, like a wet towel being shaken out by a giant in the sky.

“I still hear them, screaming in my sleep.”

Claire had moved closer so she could put a comforting hand on his forearm, letting him know that she was there.

“Some say they saw angels there on the battlefield, protecting us,” he told her, meeting her eye. “I’m no a superstitious man myself, but I canna take that vision away from anyone. I ken it’s likely just battle fatigue leading some folks to see such things in the fog, but I accept that it’s a miracle I lived through it, along with my brothers, when so many were lost. The English newspapers called it a victory, but they weren’t there.”

“You’re so very lucky,” Claire said softly. “You’re a hero, Jamie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On July 1, 1916 the Battle of the Somme began over a 15-mile stretch of land in Northern France. On the first day, nearly 20,000 British soldiers were killed with only three square miles of land captured. The battle lasted five months and the Allies never broke the German lines, though the papers did call it a win because they took many German prisoners. In total, there were over a million dead and wounded on all sides, including 420,000 British, about 200,000 from France and an estimated 465,000 from Germany. Many soldiers did say they saw angels on the battlefield with them, you can read about it [here](http://warfarehistorynetwork.com/daily/military-history/world-war-i-miracle-the-angels-of-mons/). 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet one to get us through to the next section of this tale!

They talked throughout the night, Jamie’s tales soon turning to Scotland and his family while she told him about her adventures throughout Europe and Africa with her Uncle Lamb before they came to live in Belgium. The way he spoke of his homeland was something foreign to her. She had long been a nomad, never truly feeling like she belonged anywhere while he lived in the same house he was born in and anticipated he would live in forever.

Uncle Lamb was a world-renowned archaeologist that guest lectured at universities all over the world. Claire’s parents had died in an accident when she was just five-years-old and her earliest memories were of Uncle Lamb taking her around the streets of London to show her all the bits of history all around her. They didn’t stay in England long and by the time Claire was a teenager, she had seen most of the world, but there had yet to be a place that she considered home.

“Scotland sounds like a beautiful place,” Claire said with a smile. “I can see why you miss it so.”

They were both seated on the wooden settee next to the window, a respectable amount of room between them. Jamie wished he could move closer, be nearer, feel the energy prickling off Claire’s skin, but he would never dare risk her feeling uncomfortable in her own home, let alone risk damaging her reputation.

“Aye, it’s a bonny place. I’d love to show it to ye some day.”

Claire could hide neither her smile, nor the soft blush that spread across her cheeks. “I’d like that.”

A comfortable silence fell between them. Jamie found himself staring out the window up at the stars while Claire looked to the pendulum on the clock swinging faithfully in the corner.

“It’s so late,” she said, wishing they could keep talking until the sun rose but knowing she would need sleep in order to be productive through the day and in the event that anyone needed her medical expertise.

“Good night to you then, Claire.”

Without resistance or complaint, Jamie took his leave. It was not a cold night, but Claire had given him a rough woolen blanket to bring out to the barn so he might be more comfortable. He tucked it under his arm and walked out the back door, waiting on the step for the sound of the latch locking behind him. When he didn’t hear the sound of the lock turning over, he looked back, ready to chastise Claire for not taking proper precautions to keep themselves safe whilst they slept.

In the same moment, she pulled the door back open, the light from the candles inside showing the silhouette of her body through her thin nightdress.

“I would like it very much if you would write.”

He was barely visible in the dim light, the smile that spread widely across his face at her words was impossible to miss. As he bent into a gentlemanly bow, she was grateful he couldn’t see her blush. Heading inside, she locked the door securely so he would feel more comfortable but as she hit the upstairs landing she could still see him below, watching the darkened house.


	7. Chapter 7

Letters arrived strangely creased and folded, stained and sometimes in bunches after weeks of excruciating silence. But he wrote. Claire had been afraid she wouldn’t hear from him. After all, he was a soldier at war - his mind and body would be busy with far more important things than scribbling notes to her. She had been learning that Jamie was a loyal man and a man of his word so the letters continued to come.

The first time a letter had come she had squealed with glee, pressing the soft, worn paper to her chest as she ran from the road back to the house to read it immediately. She brought the letter to her room, ignoring Mrs. Fox’s questioning gaze as she bolted up the stairs to be alone with Jamie’s words. His writing was sloppy, rushed at times and his words were often short and distracted, clearly written in small bursts, but she didn’t care.

_02 May 1917_

_Dear Claire,_

_I’m unsure of how to start this letter. I’m afraid I don’t write many letters. I’ve been missing Scotland terribly much, so I thought I might tell you a bit more about it. My home, Lallybroch, is settled in a valley. It’s surrounded by rolling hills, covered in purple heather and when the mist settles in the valley you can only see the tops of the hills reaching up toward the sun beyond the cloud. It’s the most beautiful place in the world, in my way of thinking._

_Our farm is in the valley. Farming is really all I’ve ever known other than hunting and fishing. I guess that’s what I’ll go back to when I return home. When this is all over. It’s hard work, but what isn’t? We usually get up around four in the morning and sometimes it’s so awful cold you wonder how you can even move your hands to milk the cows or throw the horses their breakfast, but it’s all worth it._

_It’s a bit odd, coming all the way out here and having everything be different. It’s the right thing to do, I’m sure. Fighting for the good guys. To be honest, I did think this would be exciting. I could really do without all the excitement._

_The boys here are pretty jealous, now that I’ve been telling them about meeting you and who I’m spending all my time writing to. They all wish they’d met a beautiful woman on the side of the road. I told them that if they did, there is no way she’d be as beautiful as you, mo nighean donn._

_I apologize for the poor writing but it has been raining quite a bit and my hands are cold. It makes it hard to hold the pencil. My hands are always cold out here, until I remember how warm yours were. Until I hear otherwise, I am_

_Yours affectionately,_  
_James_

_P.S.: James is my given name, of course. I mean Jamie._

His hands had been warm too and his skin soft under the warm water when she’d helped him bathe. She remembered how he’d made her feel so safe when they touched. Closing her eyes, Claire imagined Jamie, straight and tall in his uniform as he’d walked down the road away from her home the next morning after they’d met. All she wanted to do was keep him safe and feel that warmth once more. 


	8. Chapter 8

Early spring quickly became early summer and Jamie’s letters became Claire’s reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes they didn’t arrive for a couple of weeks, sometimes she came from town with a thin stack in her hand. She always answered faithfully, sending out note after note, trading herbs, homemade tonics and medicines for paper and stamps.

She told Jamie about her life before the farm, about travelling the world with Uncle Lamb, long before she’d ever come to Belgium. When she couldn’t hold it in any longer, she complained in long, rambling streams of text about the awful things Mrs. Fox said on a daily basis. Sometimes she sat outside, far from the house and the farm and let the sun’s rays warm the words on the page, hoping he would feel it when he read them.

Before Jamie, no one had ever asked Claire what she wanted. Everywhere she’d gone, everything she’d done, had been someone else’s decision made on her behalf. Always done with the best of intentions, with her future in mind, but out of her control nonetheless.  Jamie was the first man to be truly interested in the plans she had for her own future.

During her journeys between homesteads, helping her neighbours with their health ailments, Claire now thought about that future. It took a moment to get started, to think outside of what she knew, but then her eyes caught on a bird soaring high overhead and she couldn’t stop her dreams from growing as high as the bird’s wings, catching the breeze to get even higher.

Then, when the same breeze lifted the hem of her skirt and kissed her knees, she closed her eyes and imagined Jamie was there, holding her hand, listening and nodding, making those particularly Scottish sounds in the back of his throat as he encouraged her. Finally, she’d found someone who care about her dreams of doing new things, meeting new people and having the courage to want to do it all herself.

As the weeks went on, the health of Uncle Lamb’s long-time companion and housekeeper began to deteriorate. Mrs. Fox’s condition was not surprising to Claire, but also nothing her skills as a healer could prevent. Eventually, everyone got old. Eventually, everyone died.

She’d first met the woman when she was six and had first gone to live with Uncle Lamb. A childless man, he’d needed help raising Claire while continuing his life’s work and as a childless woman, Mrs. Fox had risen to the challenge. Sometimes she did wonder what Mrs. Fox had been like back in those days because she couldn’t imagine she was anything like the bitter old woman she was today. Otherwise, the juxtaposition of Lamb and Fox would have been all too realistic.

Now it was up to Claire to care for the old woman because no one else would and Claire couldn’t imagine anyone existing entirely on their own. As the woman’s feeble limbs rose from her bed less and less often, Claire supposed she would eventually miss her in some way, but she also looked forward to the day she could move on.

Each morning, Claire milked the goat that was always waiting at the door, bleating for attention. She poured the milk into two metal cups and headed back inside while taking her first sip, letting the warm drink fortify her and give her enough strength to go upstairs and hold the cup to the lips of the woman who had basically raised her from childhood, encouraging her to drink.

“No,” the old woman rasped. “No more.”

“You must drink,” Claire encouraged her. “To keep your strength up.”

“ _No_.”

Claire was about to get up and leave when Mrs. Fox’s arthritic hold hand grabbed her wrist with a strength she didn’t know the old woman had.

“I have accomplished nothing. I die an empty old woman. Be someone, Claire.”

She wanted to cry, to rave at the woman that she was the only mother Claire could remember, even though they weren't related. She was the person who had taught her grammar and arithmetic, and was the reason Claire had any idea at all about herbs and healing. But she was right, all she’d ever done was serve other people and Claire wouldn’t die having done nothing for herself.

An hour later, she was making tea when the horrible, rasping breath suddenly stopped. The rest of the day she cried, not only for Mrs. Fox but also for her freedom and then she picked up a pen.

_My dear Jamie,_

_Mrs. Fox is dead and the world has opened its doors to me..._


	9. Chapter 9

After the Somme, Jamie never wanted to be back in another bloody trench, yet there he was, just beyond the last German controlled ridge near the city of Ypres, scaling the walls to avoid sections of waist deep mud in another bloody trench.

In Passchendaele, like the Somme before it, the recipe for trench warfare was simple. Find a flat ploughed field, roughly ten acres in size. Ensure the field was situated in a low spot, where all the surface water of the surrounding county drained directly into it. Then, slice a long, winding slit about four feet deep and three feet wide diagonally across it, dam off as much water as possible so as to leave roughly one hundred yards of thick, squelching mud in the middle. 

Carve out a hole at one side of the slot, then endeavour to live there for months on measly rations of corned beef and damp biscuits, all the while instructing your brothers in arms to fire warning shots at their friends any time their heads dare drift above the surface.

In the best sections, the standing trenches were about six feet deep. Most men were able to comfortably walk upright during the day in safety from rifle fire, but Jamie was sure to stay hunched over at all times, one hand holding his tin hat firmly to his head. It meant he spent his time constantly staring into the mud, watching his boots move carefully along strategically placed duckboard tracks. He hiked a burlap bag higher up his shoulder as he moved back to where the rest of his platoon were waiting, grabbing what sleep they could get amidst the noise and the mud.

“Alright,” he interrupted, the men rousing slowly to his return. “Sound off!”

“What’s in the bag, Lieutenant?”

“In a minute. Sound off!”

“MacDonald!”

“Campbell!”

“Andrews.”

The rest of the names rang out, including the numerous Mackenzies and MacRaes that made up the bulk of their unit. Once they had fulfilled their orders, all attention went to the burlap sack that now sat idly next to Jamie’s feet. A large lump inside the bag could have been a variety of things - anything from extra rations to mail from home and they all stared curiously.

“What’s in the bag, Sir?” Sgt. Mackenzie questioned gruffly, eager to put his men out of their misery.

“A wee gift from the C.O.,” Jamie explained. He overturned the bag, letting the limp body of a plump mallard drop to the boards next to the other men. The Major had called it a “Last Supper sort of thing” when he’d handed Jamie the bag, but he dare not repeat that sentiment to the others. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them and realizing that this could be their last warm meal for a long time, or their last meal ever, would put a damper on the mood.

“Get yourselves sorted, lads!” Sgt. Mackenzie took control of the situation, understanding the intent of the gift without Jamie having to spell it out to him. “Let’s get this bird plucked!”

“Thank ye, Sargeant,” Jamie said with a nod. “I’ve been called to H.Q., can you manage here?”

“What do they want with you there?” Mackenzie asked, realizing how unusual it was for a junior officer to get called to talk with the higher ups.

“Dinna ken.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a young private, anxiously pointing back toward the regimental headquarters buildings.

“MPs!” he exclaimed. “The Regimental Sargeant Major is wi’ them.”

“I’d better go,” Jamie said, quickly leaving the men to their meal. He made his way back through the trenches, stumbling over sections where the duckboard had been blown away by shelling. Once out of the trench system and out of range of the enemy, he picked up the pace. The area was milling with activity, stretcher bearers bringing men to the nearby field hospital, horses moving wagons full of supplies toward the front and wagons full of the dead away from it.

 _Dearest Claire,_  he’d written earlier that morning while choking down a mug of ice cold sludge masquerading as coffee.

_I’m not sure if you’ll receive this letter. The post has been somewhat unreliable since we came to Passchendaele. It’s been three months since we got here and I can’t recall the last time I saw the sun in earnest. It only ever seems to rain here and when it’s not raining the sky is clouded by artillery smoke. The battlefield is like a bowl of stew, and nothing like the venison stew my Mam makes each fall that warms you to your core. It’s mud, and rocks and more bloody wire than you could imagine._

_Not that you could imagine it, a beautiful mind like yours. I apologize for sullying it with such dark imagery. The whole thing is stalled, neither of us have gained any ground and something’s got to give. I have no doubt the home office will redact much of this, and I apologize that all of our correspondence is screened._

_I try to paint a picture in my mind of your home, where I last saw you. I see the house, the dooryard, your luscious garden and you, of course. I pray every night that we find each other once more..._

“Jamie?”

The familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. He felt butterflies in his stomach as he turned, biting back his emotions as their eyes met. Matching blue Fraser eyes that he hadn’t seen since they’d left Scotland.

“Willie!?”


	10. Chapter 10

“What are ye doing here?!” Jamie asked, his shock quickly turning to excitement as he threw himself against his older brother for a hug without regard for where they were.

Willie was quiet for a moment, holding Jamie tight. His little brother had grown in the time they’d been apart and he now stood nearly a head above him. Last time they’d been together he’d been able to look him in the eye.

“I thought I wouldna see ye again,” Willie whispered.

“Haud yer wheesht!” Jamie laughed nervously, hitting Willie on the chest as they pulled out of their hug. The elder was holding him by his shoulders, taking in his appearance from his tired eyes, razor burn from a hasty dry shave that morning to the two Bath stars on the cuff of his sleeve.

“Shall I address you as ‘Sir’ then?” Willie asked with a hint of condescension in his tone.

Willie had worked on their family farm his entire life. From the day he was born the plan had been for him to inherit the land and the responsibility and from a young age he began learning from their father. Jamie meanwhile had more interest in academics and had enrolled in University as soon as he was able.

He was still a student when the war had broken out, but his higher social status courtesy of his education earned Jamie a commission to enlist as an officer while both his brothers were non-commissioned members. It had been difficult for Willie to accept his little brother’s advanced standing when they’d gone off to training camp and continually made sure he didn’t forget who was older and infinitely wiser.

“Weel,” Jamie paused anxiously. “No’ when we’re just speakin’, just us. In front of others though, well, ye ken...aye, ye must.”

“Christ, James,” Willie rolled his eyes. “I ken that, it was sarcasm. Fer all the schooling Da has paid for, ye still havena any sense.”

Jamie’s family had always fought as fiercely as they loved. Willie was five years older than Jamie, just enough that he was always the little nuisance that butted his way between Willie and his friends. If they were home at Lallybroch, Jamie would have challenged his elder brother physically without a doubt.

He could hear their Mam yelling at them as they rolled around the dooryard while Da used to intervene until they got bigger than even him. Now he simply let them exhaust each other until they didn’t have the energy to fight any longer, then he’d put them to work mucking out stalls, milking, forking hay, pulling weeds and hauling whatever heavy things he could find to make them reconsider any future scuffles.

These days all Jamie did was fight and it was no doubt the same with Willie. He didn’t have it in him to argue with someone he loved.

“Why are ye here, Will?”

“Dinna ken. Was told I was to meet wi’ the RSM.”

The Regimental Sergeant Major was appointed to oversee the conduct of the non-commissioned members in the regiment. Typically, someone of Willie’s rank would only be called to a meeting with him if there was a question of discipline or performance or, in some soldier’s cases, a court martial.

“Lieutenant Fraser, Sir?”

“Yes,” Jamie acknowledged the young English Private standing nervously offside the two brothers. He didn’t break his gaze with Willie, trying to get a good read on whether he was skirting the truth in saying he didn’t know why he’d been called to this meeting. It was a Captain Randall, with the Royal Military Police, that was looking to speak him the pair of them.

The Captain barely acknowledged them as they stood at attention in front of the desk of the Regimental Colonel, the RSM standing just beside the chair.

“Sir,” Jamie spoke to his superior. “I dinnae ken what my brother has done but I assure ye…”

“Are you a gentleman, Lieutenant?” Captain Randall interrupted and Jamie got a good look at him for the first time. The man was tall, though not as tall as Jamie which gave him some sense of satisfaction, and lean enough that he could deduce his prowess was less physical in nature and more to do with his personality. A personality that Jamie would describe as dark. He had short dark hair beneath a red dress cap and dark eyes completely void of any sense of sentiment or emotion.

“Ay...yes, Sir, Captain,” Jamie instinctively softened his broad Highland accent into the more posh, academic tone that he had learned to use through his schooling after months of torment from English students who pretended not to understand him. His Scottishness was often seen as lowbrow by those from the upper echelon of society and although he didn’t care much for their acceptance, there was something to be said for ensuring his opportunity and potential for prosperity in the future.

“As an officer and a gentleman, as you say you are, I would expect you to speak the King’s English.”

“My apologies, Sir.” Jamie could feel his brother’s judgemental gaze as he folded under the pressure of authority. Their family had a long history of resisting English occupation of Scotland and Willie would surely be reminding him of their ancestors plight as soon as they were out of earshot.

“The reason we’ve asked you here today is to inform you that your brother Robert has been arrested for desertion. He faced a court martial and was found guilty.”

Jamie gasped, not believing what he was hearing. Rabbie was just a lad, barely 19, but he had volunteered just the same as he and Willie, he wouldn’t turn tail and run.

"You must be mistaken..."

“I’m afraid not,” Captain Randall interrupted. “He’s to face a firing squad the morning after next.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was...a tough hiatus, to say the least. I'm doing my best to get back into the writing habit though. This is a bit of a transitional chapter, I promise Claire will be back soon!

According to the charge sheet, which Captain Randall handed over with much reluctance, Lance Corporal Robert Fraser was guarding a position along the Western Front with another lower ranking soldier before his arrest. A more senior infantryman, while fleeing a German ambush from the flank side, ran past their position yelling at all to run as the Hun were upon them. The lads, having no more sense than just to follow the lead of the older men around them, did as they were told and fled. Robert, in his haste, left his weapon behind while they retreated a mere 20 metres away.

Both men were arrested on the spot by Captain Randall for deserting their post, an additional charge against Robert for casting away his rifle while escaping for his life. According to the report, the court martial had lasted all of 30 minutes. It didn’t even take senior officers a full hour to decide to send all three to their deaths.

Jamie found himself grinding his teeth as he read through the document that outlined the lack of evidence presented against his brother, but Captain Randall’s insistence to the company General that they be shot as an example to the other men in the battalion.

They were going to execute his baby brother as nothing more than a show of their authority and expected him to stand by and do nothing to stop it.

“Sir,” Jamie addressed the Captain. “These scurrilous accusations are untrue and unfair. What lad of 19 would not run if they thought their life was at risk?”

“Are you not trained to defend yourself against the enemy?” Randall asked rhetorically. “Are you not trained to shoot to kill? Letting the enemy live and what’s worse, leaving your weapon at their disposal is nothing more than cowardice and Lance Corporal Fraser will have to be accountable for his actions.”

“He’s just a boy!”

“He’s not a boy, he is a soldier!” Randall barked. “He stopped being a boy as soon as he joined the British Army. The decision has been made Lieutenant, I’m afraid no amount of debate is going to alter the outcome.”

Willie had barely been able to wait to be dismissed by the Sergeant Major before bursting out the door in a fit of bottled rage. The RSM and Captain Randall had left shortly after, leaving Jamie to follow.

“Lieutenant,” Jamie’s Battalion Commanding Officer, who had been mostly silent until now, called him back to attention in front of his desk. “There is another matter I require you for.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I realize this isn’t the most opportune time and for that I do apologize. I received word from headquarters this morning that your company’s Captain has been reassigned to another unit.”

“Fine,” Jamie answered shortly, his fists closing tighter at his sides as he fought the urge to simply leave the room without another word. “I’ll await the new Captain’s arrival. Sir.”

“Afraid we find ourselves in a bit of a pickle, Fraser.”

The CO’s posh English accent was grating on Jamie’s nerves. He struggled enough justifying the use of a fake accent to appease these people’s expectations of his social standing, but listening to them drone on left him yearning for Scotland.

“It would seem there are no more Captains left unassigned. It’s up to you now, chap.”

The CO was now standing in front of him, a set of brass Bath star pins in hand to adjust the rank on the cuff of his sleeve. Field promotions were not uncommon in the likely event of all other options being dead. Jamie wondered if perhaps all the Captains had simply run for cover from enemy fire and ended up dead for it, but opted not to voice his concerns allowed.

Being responsible for the lives of other men was no small feat and he would now have nearly 200 underneath him to keep out of harm’s way. He knew deep down that a sudden decision to promote him probably had more to do with inflating the value of a good soldier during a time when his loyalty might come into question. He had proven to be a good junior officer, followed orders and kept his platoon in line. He was a medal winning fighter, highly respected among his peers and those he was leading. It would be foolish of his superiors to let something like his brother’s death interfere with the prospects of a good warrior.

“Thank you, Sir.” Jamie said over the sound of the Gaelic curses shouting through his mind. He was waiting for the opportunity to salute and get the hell out of there but decided to use what little clout he had to make a final request on behalf of his brother.

“Sir, might I be so bold as to request your leave - my brother and I - to see Robert one last time? For our mother. To say goodbye.”

The CO stroked one finger along his jaw in thought. The older man moved to sit behind his desk, taking a lingering glance at Robert Fraser’s court martial report. They were days away from the next push and there was a very good possibility that Ellen Fraser would be receiving more than one letter regretfully announcing a lost son.

“I’ll have Captain Randall take you, but I want you back here with your men in 36 hours. I hope you understand Captain, that your brother will serve as an example to motivate all the young men of your division to follow orders for the sake of their lives. He will not die in vain.”

“I also killed a lad once,” Jamie said, knowing it was out of turn to speak this way to a superior but unable to stop himself. “I’ve killed a lot of men, but I killed this one lad. He had these blue eyes. Like water. I didna have to kill him. I wasna scared or...I just killed him. I will to have to answer to the Almighty for that. One way or another. As will we all.”


	12. Chapter 12

They were shoulder to shoulder in the back of a truck, rumbling down the road along with a group of wounded being transferred from the front to the closest camp - a Belgian forward operating post where the hospital, senior administration and the disciplinary barracks were located.

“What’s the plan?” Willie asked, watching his brother deep in thought. His fingers were tapping a march against the outside of his thigh. There was no response, just a far off daze.

“Jamie. James! _Sheumais_!”

“Aye, I hear ye,” Jamie replied testily. The truth was, he didn’t have the slightest idea what their next move should be. He knew before he asked if they could see Robert that they would not be leaving him to die. They would be setting their brother to his freedom, and only had a few hours to figure out how.

“Why is it no’ you making this plan? Yer the elder, yer meant to be taking care of me and Rabbie.”

Willie nodded solemnly, his eyes cast downward toward his hands. “I have to face reality, brother. We only have one chance and we canna muck it up. Yer the smart one, I ken ye are. I trust yer mind.”

Jamie was suddenly aware that they weren’t alone in the back of the truck. Although all of the other men were injured, it didn’t mean they were deaf and even keeping their voices low there would be potential to be overheard. It would only take one person to alert Captain Randall to their discussion and they would quickly find themselves side by side, three across, when the firing squad was called together.

“ _Uilleam_ ,” he spoke his brother’s name in a hushed tone. Understanding the silent suggestion, they both switched to the Gàidhlig, using their native language as a way to hide their discussion from the other occupants of the truck.

As the wheels squealed to a stop, they had come up with the best plan they could given the time allowed. It had to go exactly as planned in order for all of them to make it out alive. They needed to create enough of a distraction to get the Military Police away from where they were keeping Robert and free him. At least if he could make a run for it then there was a chance he might live. There was still the risk of being found by the Germans while on the run, or being picked up by any group of Allied soldiers that would ultimately return him to the British and put him right back where he started, but they had to try.

Teams of doctors and nurses began unloading the wounded from the back of the truck, calling out orders and directions to the people around them. Jamie and Willie filed off behind them and tried to make their way through the throngs of people toward the front where Captain Randall would be waiting.

Randall stepped out of the truck, giving the two of them a disgusted once over. “Wait here,” he instructed and marched off with another MP at his side.

Jamie resisted the urge to pace, instead he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky. It was overcast, but he could still feel the sun’s warmth doing its best to radiate through the clouds.

“Jamie,” Willie nudged his shoulder. “A lass is eyeing ye up.”

“The kilt tends to draw attention from the locals, I wouldna pay any mind to it.”

“She’s coming this way.”

He heard her before he saw her, calling his name from the other side of the crowd.

**Claire.**

As though draw together by magnets, he found himself moving in her direction without even putting thought into the action. He shuffled around stretcher bearers, men on crutches and other soldiers carrying about their business to reach her. He almost didn’t recognize her in the same pale lilac dress, white apron adorned with a large red cross and white cap as all the Belgian Red Cross volunteer nurses bustling around the area, but her whisky-coloured eyes and soft brown curls were unmistakable. He had dreamt of her every night, for so many nights, that even in the same clothes as everyone else, he would know those eyes anywhere.

They both stopped short once they were within arm’s reach, neither knowing what to do. Jamie wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and kiss her like he’d never kissed anyone before, but it was not the appropriate time. Not only were they standing in a crowd of strangers that would surely look down upon Claire for such behaviour, but his reason for being there was still front and centre. He couldn’t lose focus, they had to save Robert.

“Are you hurt? What are you doing here?!” Claire gave him a quick once over, looking for any sign of injury through his mud-stained uniform.

“Claire. I’m so verra glad to see ye, lass. I’ve thought of you, so often. Ye came to me so many nights when I was cold and fevered, sleeping in the trenches with nothing but the memory of your touch on my hand to get me through to another dawn. I hoped to never see ye in a place like this, though. ”

She thought was raving, that his neurasthenia had weakened his nerves again and was how he found himself at a field hospital. She touched the back of her hand to his forehead, not detecting an elevated temperature. She continued poking and prodding at glands, taking a pulse, all while he simply watched her hands move over him with medical precision.

“James?” his brother’s voice broke him from his reverie and he shook his head free of the cloud that was Claire’s presence.

Jamie took Claire’s hands, putting an end to her ministrations. “I’m no ill, I promise ye,” he assured her with a brief glance to Willie. “We’re here on another matter. It’s my younger brother. He’s here, somewhere, set to face a firing squad in the morning and we’re going to stop it.”

Claire looked between Jamie and the man next to him, slightly shorter and wider, but unmistakably Jamie’s brother. They shared the same shock of red hair and slanted blue eyes, but also the same intensity of expression that left no doubt that they were serious in their plans.

“How can I help?”


	13. Chapter 13

It didn’t take long for Claire to determine that Jamie and Willie’s plan was more of an act of heroism that one might see in a picture at the cinema and less of a plan that would ultimately result in their brother going free and neither of them being suspected of the deed. Going in guns blazing, creating a large distraction and hoping that the three of them would get away with it, was a recipe for disaster that she just couldn’t accept.

“How would putting your own lives at risk be of any help to your brother?”

Her arms crossed tightly across her chest as she looked between the two men, the pair clearly without an answer to her query.

“I dinnae see any another alternative,” Jamie admitted. They simply didn’t have the time or the resources to plan anything more robust and if he was being honest, heroic prison rescue missions were not his specialty.

“Jamie,” his brother whispered harshly. “How do ye ken this lass? Do ye trust her with Rabbie’s life?”

“Aye,” Jamie whispered, “I trust her wi’ my own. Claire is...very important to me, _a bráthair_.”

Claire lowered her head to hide the blush that spread across her cheeks at Jamie’s words. She wished they could have some time alone, to speak in person all the words that they had, or wanted to, put to paper over the long months but now was not the time. The Captain she’d seen them talking to would no doubt be back soon so they needed to act.

One of the advantages to Claire’s upbringing had been long periods of time alone with her books and her plants. They were where she immediately went when she needed guidance and this situation would be no different.

“I have an idea, but you’ll have to give your brother a message and he will have to do exactly what I say - no questions asked.”

“Care to enlighten us, lassie?” Willie asked, still not entirely sold on Jamie’s level of trust considering he’d never so much as heard this woman’s name before and his brother appeared to be quite smitten with her. He was unsure when Jamie had the time amidst this bloody war to chase a skirt, but it was a question for another time.

Though no one appeared to be paying them any attention, all focused on their tasks, Claire still made a cursory glance around to asses their privacy before pulling the two men closer to the stone wall of the hospital.

“You’ve read Romeo and Juliet, yes?”

“No,” Willie answered at the same time as Jamie muttered, “ _Of course_.”

“Ye havena read Shakespeare?” Jamie asked in surprise.

“Not all of us have time for such frivolity.”

“Boys, focus,” Claire quieted them. She could see the Captain that brought them moving back toward the truck and new they had to act quickly. “Dramatics notwithstanding, Shakespeare had a fine knowledge of the botanical and used it as plot devices in a number of his plays. Juliet takes a sleeping potion that makes everyone believe she is dead. While it might seem like simply a trope, it’s quite possible if you know what you’re doing. _Atropa belladonna_ \- sleeping nightshade. Repeated small doses can cause madness, too much is certain death, but the correct dosage will cause a person to fall into a deep sleep, their heart rate will slow to the point of being almost undetectable. I think the best way to keep your brother alive may be to kill him before they do.”

“That cannae actually work! Tis ludacris,” Willie exclaimed in frustration.

“Jamie, he needs to trust me.”

Jamie reached out and held her hand tightly, letting her know without a doubt and so much as a word, that he had complete faith in her.

“She’s our only hope, William. If ye trust me, brother then ye’ll trust the lass aswell.”

“Fine,” Willie muttered.

“Good. I’ll tell you exactly what you need to do and you need to follow it to the letter. Now go, that Captain is nearly back and will be looking for you.”

* * *

 

When Jamie and Willie finally had the chance to see their brother, under the pretense of saying their final goodbyes, they hugged him close and whispered Claire’s plans translated into Gaelic so that Captain Randall wouldn’t overhear.

While on the surface it seemed as though her plan was the less overtly risky of the two, there was still an underlying sense of danger. There were many variables that could still result in them being found out, in Rabbie being killed, in Claire being arrested, in Jamie and Willie being discovered as the masterminds of the escape attempt.

The message they had conveyed to Robert seemed simple. After they were given their evening meal, he was to complain of severe griping in the guts. Claire had assured them that even as a prisoner, he would be entitled to medical care and that, by law, they could not execute a prisoner that was under a doctor’s care until he was discharged from treatment. She would position herself to conveniently be nearby to assist the on-duty MPs and during his examination, would slip Robert a decoction of sleeping nightshade from her personal collection of herbal medicines.

Claire was often looked down upon by the college-trained doctors and nurses for her use of herbal remedies but thankfully had been successful in the past using the seeds from nightshade berries for treatment for motion sickness and as a cold and hay fever remedy, so there would be no cause for alarm if another nurse witnessed her ministrations. It wouldn’t take long before Robert would slip into a coma induced by the herbs and if everything went to plan, his heart rate would slow enough that even the doctor that would come to declare him dead would not be able to find a pulse.

While a large number of men would never be recovered from the trenches and battlefields where they would forever lie, a steady flow of dead returned from the front lines in addition to those dying in the hospitals. A burial party had been mustered to search each body, retrieve identification tags and any usable equipment the soldier may have left, record names for letters to be sent home, then place the body in a common area for burial in a nearby cemetery. The backlog of bodies for burial was seemingly never ending and while it brought Claire great sadness, it also meant that when Robert’s body was delivered, covered with a sheet, to await a coward’s burial, it would give her time to wake him up and help him get away. They would never notice a single body missing in a sea of young men.

Though all this effort meant that Robert would live and be able to make his way home to Scotland, Jamie still bit his tongue to try and hold back tears as he embraced his younger brother. It could very well be the last time they ever saw each other, regardless of whether the plan was a success. Deep down Jamie knew there was a good chance it would be him buried in a simple grave in the middle of a Belgian field instead. His chances of ever getting home to be with his parents again, to roughhouse his brothers again, to work on their farm again, to be young and carefree again, were slim. As he held Robert close, felt the rough wool of the lad’s tunic against his fingers, he finally let himself be free of the tears that were not only for Robert’s youth but for his own, then set out to find Claire and put their plan into motion.


	14. Chapter 14

The forward operating base was staged in the remains of a once beautiful, vibrant Belgian farming town. Now, the people were gone, long since evacuated from the rubble that was their homes, and the military had moved in. The few buildings that were still fully standing, lucky enough to have somehow missed the constant barrage of shelling, had become the hospital and administrative buildings, all surrounded by dilapidated stone frameworks. It was in one of the ruins that Jamie eventually found Claire, preparing for Rabbie’s great escape.

There was no roof or windows and two of the walls had fallen but the former home was well sheltered from view, looking simply like rubble from the road. Claire had turned what was left of the chimney into a makeshift table where she would grind her herbs, away from the prying eyes of the hospital staff.

With time ticking down on Jamie’s 36-hour leave pass and Claire about to be preoccupied with helping them save their brother’s life, there was a few things he needed to speak with her about before it was too late.

“There ye are, lass,” he greeted as he walked over a pile of bricks where the front door once stood.

“I’m just deciding on the easiest way to administer an antidote,” Claire explained. “There are a few different herbs that can counteract a dose of alkaloids of this size. The simplest way would be to use activated carbon but I don’t know where I would find that around here.”

“How is it better?” Jamie asked. The passion Claire showed in her letters for healing and botany seemed subdued in comparison to hearing her speak of it and he wished he had forever to listen to her explain the how’s and why’s.

“It’s extremely absorbent,” Claire said. “It’s able to bind to molecules and remove substances that have already dissolved. A dose of activated carbon would have the belladonna out of your brother’s system almost immediately.”

“Speaking of my brother…”

He paused long enough to move around the table so they were mere inches away. So close Jamie could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the soft hairs of her arms standing on end to meet his. He lowered his head to look into her whisky-coloured eyes, hoping she wouldn’t think him daft for what he was about to suggest.

“I want ye to go wi’ him.”

“With your brother? To help him out of Belgium?”

“No,” he said, taking a light grip of Claire’s biceps. She felt so delicate, his hands easily wrapping full around to meet in the middle. “I want ye to go to Scotland, Claire. Get awa’ from this bloody place.”

“I can’t go to Scotland!” she scoffed, trying to move away though his hold on her prevented it. “I’m needed here.”

“Claire,” Jamie said with eyes pleading. “I need ye. I canna focus on keeping myself alive if I dinnae ken yer safe and if I die, I need to ken you’ll be taken care of.”

“How would I be taken care of?” Claire questioned. “It could be months before we ever made it to Scotland - ports are closed, I have no money. Do you expect me to wander the European countryside with a man I’ve never met then show up on your family’s doorstep looking for them to take care of me if you don’t come home? I can take care of myself.”

Tears were welling in her eyes at speaking the words of Jamie’s possible future aloud and he brushed them away softly as they tumbled over the edge and onto her cheeks.

“I ken ye can. It’s one of the many things I love about ye. But...they’ll be your folk, too,” he assured her. “As my wife.”

“Your wife?” she repeated quietly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life, _mo nighean donn_.”

“But how?”

Jamie smiled knowingly, “Lass, if there’s anything this army has plenty of it’s priests. Say the word and we could be wed afore supper.”

Claire’s heart rate increase as a thrill of excitement shot through her, leaving a trail of goose pimples in its wake. With every letter she got from Jamie over the months, deep down she had secretly hoped one of them would include an offer of marriage. This wasn’t exactly how she had ultimately envisioned their union taking place but if this was what being with him would mean, then she would take it.

“Won’t we rouse suspicion, when I’m the one who treats your brother?”

“They willna ken,” he assured her. “By the time anyone could even notice anything amiss, ye’ll both be gone. Ye must promise me that ye’ll go. So much of yer life has been spent taking care of somebody else, Claire. Let me take care of you now.”

“Yes.”

* * *

 

“Jamie, where are ye goin’?” Willie called out as Jamie made his way quick march across the camp.

“To find a priest!”

“Not to confession, I hope!”

Jamie rolled his eyes, it was just like his brother to assume he wouldn’t make it a full hour before he needed to confess his sins to the Almighty.

“Dinna fash, _a bhalaich_. I need to see the man about a wedding!”

Willie was stunned into silence as they continued to walk along the uneven road, dodging stretcher bearers and men on horseback.

“Jamie, ye’ve never even mentioned this lass before and now ye want to marry her?”

“Willie,” Jamie stopped and turned to his brother, holding him by both shoulders as he looked into the face that was so much like his own in spite of their many differences. “I’ve loved Claire since the very moment I laid eyes on her, months ago. She’s the only lass I want tae be wi’. If I die, I want to ken my pension goes to her. Trust me when I say she’s the only lass for me.”

Though his brother was ranting something about his lunacy, Jamie didn’t quite hear the words, distracted by a supply wagon just behind where they stood. Two men were unloading the wagon with crates destined for the front full of rations, trench timbers, ammunition and other necessities.

“Go find a priest, I have tae do something,” he muttered, pushing Willie toward the administration buildings, ignoring his brother’s weak protests as the elder walked off in a huff to complete the task.

Jamie took a quick inventory of the contents of the wagon as he approached the two men unloading and cataloging everything.

“Excuse me!” he announced his presence, catching the attention of the supply crew. They both hopped to attention, saluting him in recognition for his rank. “Were you not instructed to bring this crate to the hospital, Private?”

The men looked both curious and confused by the small crate Jamie had pointed out, just one of a set of ten that was on the back of the wagon.

“That one, Sir?”

“Yes,” Jamie acknowledged. “Clearly the message wasn’t delivered in a timely fashion. I’ll take it myself!”

“Sir, I think perhaps we should wait until the message…”

“Private!” Jamie interrupted, standing at full height, back ramrod straight to make the two feel more inferior than they already did. “I said I’ll take it myself. They need this over at the hospital straight away.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jamie picked up the small crate from the back of the wagon, walking casually away from the supply station until he was out of sight and able to break into a full sprint back to where he’d left Claire. He burst over the rubble holding the small crate victoriously in front of himself.

“That’s not a priest,” she said rhetorically.

“No, it’s not,” Jamie chuckled. She looked on in curiosity as he pulled a knife from his belt and pried open the wooden crate. “Ye said ye needed activated carbon, yes?”

“Yes, why…” Claire began to ask when Jamie triumphantly pulled out a small box respirator. A face mask was connected to a corrugated tube with a filter on the end for soldiers to use during chlorine gas attacks in the trenches. Jamie pulled the filter free from the tube and using the knife, separated the top from the base so she could see the black powder inside.

“Activated carbon, lass. I found it.”

Claire let out a whoop of joy, jumping into Jamie’s arms so fast he nearly dropped the filter. He wrapped one arm tightly around her, unable to keep himself from pressing his lips firmly against hers. They tentatively explored, each taking a turn tugging the other’s bottom lip gently. Reluctantly, Jamie pulled away, dropping one final kiss to Claire’s nose.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Willie cleared his throat to both announce his presence and dispel some of the sexual tension in the room, “Yer priest is here and he’s willing to wed ye.”


End file.
